


halfway up a mountain, and halfway across the world

by pocketmouse



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-11
Updated: 2008-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Which is why they are sitting, all four of them, huddled together in a small tent halfway up the side of K2, bundled up in all the gear they could manage to scrounge up, keeping a weather eye on the progress of the sun, descending steadily in the cloud-filled sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	halfway up a mountain, and halfway across the world

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between seasons 1 and 2 of Torchwood, based off hints from DW3 and BBC supplemental material.

No one has been hurt in the avalanche -- about the only good thing Owen can see in this stupid mess -- and Tosh has run all the scans she can, they've poked and prodded every bit of debris left, and there's really nothing left to do but wait for the chopper to be dug out.

Which is why they are sitting, all four of them, huddled together in a small tent halfway up the side of K2, bundled up in all the gear they could manage to scrounge up, keeping a weather eye on the progress of the sun, descending steadily in the cloud-filled sky. Tosh has finally been convinced to put her heavier outer gloves back on, now that there is no more she can do with her computer, and Gwen is sitting next to her, cheeks red and ruddy from exposure to the wind and sun, one of Tosh's hands tucked against her body. Tosh has tucked her other hand in her own armpit, but is uncomplaining of Gwen's hold on her other.

Ianto is on Gwen's other side, across from Owen in the odd square they're sitting in, knees bumping awkwardly as they sit crossed-legged and too close on the one sleeping bag. The other two they managed to dig out are draped around them all like giant blankets, Ianto still fussing and tucking at the edges, trying to get them more secure, though his own movements are doing just as much to dislodge them as they are to pin them down. His face is scoured as well, the skin of his nose crackling and chapped, his eyes dark and bruised from too many sleepless nights. He tugs at the blanket again and Owen can’t help it any more, reaches over and tugs Ianto's hand down, shoves it under his thigh.

"Leave it," he mutters. "The chopper's fine, it's just buried a little. The Lieutenant's men will have it out in a few hours, we're not going to be re-enacting _Alive_ here."

The words are flippant, but the familiar bickering seems to be what Ianto needs at the moment. He gives a shaky laugh. "That was the Andes, not the Himalayas." His cheek curls up in a cracked grin, then, and his fingers, still in Owen's grasp, twitch slightly. "Besides, you're too stringy to eat."

Gwen barks a laugh, and Owen feels the movement of air across his face. "God, Owen would make terrible eating." Her shoulders relax, tension bleeding away visible even under all the bulky layers they're wearing. She'd gone pretty pale before they'd realized the doll was just that, and hadn't said much since. "I think you'd be much tastier, all young and tender." She pokes Ianto in the side with one gloved finger.

No one even realizes what she's said until Ianto says, dryly, "Yes, well, we all knew that, I think." He slides his other arm around Gwen before she can think to make an awkward apology. "But I'm much quicker, too." His arm at her waist squeezes, and she laughs, which turns quickly to a gasp as a sudden wave of wind buffets the tent. The slight air of humor is taken away with it, and they are eye each other warily in the dim light. The tent has warmed slowly with their shared, cocooned body heat, but Owen's ribs ache from the abrupt tackle one of the UNIT guys had taken him down in to prevent him from getting washed away with the raging snow, and Tosh has been courting frostbite for hours, and all of them are riding the hard edge of exhaustion and fear.

Tosh bumps up against him, pressing her shoulder to his, a solid presence even through the layers of down and nylon and wool, her head against him for a moment. He presses back, threading his left arm through her right, lacing their fingers together, difficult through the gloves, but important. They are all connected now, pressed against each other, warm puffs of air ghosting from one to another, linked together in their own little sanctuary, waiting for their moment.

For the first time in a long time, Owen feels safe.


End file.
